


Family Ties

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mourning, Post Season 4, alternate season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: They’d spent nights under the stars, lying beside one another, revealing little bits of themselves in ways they’d never felt safe before. Until every part of their lives laid out, open and bare for the other to hold and protect.It’s why when Julia and Alice both each volunteered to do this, he couldn’t let them. Why when Julia, watery eyed and jittery, sitting beside him in the infirmary, said, “I have to tell his mother.” He squeezed her hand.And said no.—-Or, Eliot finds Quentin’s mom after his death.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	Family Ties

Eliot stands at the end of the walkway, staring up at the unassuming door ahead of him. There’s nothing that differentiates this from either home next to it. Nothing that makes it particularly special or terrifying. It’s just an ordinary home on the outskirts of New York City. The curtains on the living room window are slightly askew, and maybe just shy of being nice enough to trick the neighbors into thinking the resident is slightly more well off than they are. The grass is browning, but so is the lawn of every other house on the street. 

He takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders, but doesn’t move. There’s no screen on the door, which isn’t particularly out of the norm, but he’d imagined there being a screen. He’d played this moment out in his head about a thousand times before finally finding it in himself to come — and every time there’d been a fucking screen on the door. Maybe it’s because of the stories Quentin told him, back in Fillory. Stories that are barely more than dreams that itch to fade, but that can’t seem to separate themselves from his grief. 

They’d spent nights under the stars, lying beside one another, revealing little bits of themselves in ways they’d never felt safe before. Until every part of their lives laid out, open and bare for the other to hold and protect.

It’s why when Julia and Alice both each volunteered to do this, he couldn’t let them. Why when Julia, watery eyed and jittery, sitting beside him in the infirmary, said, “I have to tell his mother.” He squeezed her hand.

And said no.

Quentin told him his darkest secret three years into the mosaic quest. They were bone sore and tired, sprawled out on the ground. Desperate. Broken down by failure after failure after failure. And Quentin stared up at the sky. Hadnt said anything in maybe an hour. Maybe longer. Time creaked along in Fillory, and Eliot never tried to make sense of it. But then he drew in a shaky breath, and, without looking away from the stars gazing sown on them, said;

“When I was fourteen I overheard my mom tell my dad that she was scared. That I—I’d kill myself. She. Uh, she said that she didn’t know what terrified her more. Finding my body, or opening the front door to a stranger. Telling her that — telling her that I’d finally succeeded.” 

Maybe he should have let Julia do it. But these days she and the others feel more like strangers in relation to Quentin than Eliot knows what to do with. Even more so when Alice shared her memories of the past few months and showed them outright neglecting him. Letting him suffer and not offering so much as a hand to hold. And, maybe this is just him proving Quentin’s mothers worst nightmare a reality, but he couldn’t let her or anyone else do this. Couldn’t let them stand in front of this woman, and tell them how sorry they were when they can’t even look Eliot in the eyes when they say it to him.

He takes a step forward, stops.

That night in Fillory, he’d pulled Quentin in close and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re strong,” he said. “You’re a fighter. And she’s never going to have to face that fear because even on your darkest day, I know you’ll fight. And you’ll come out on top of the monsters in your head.” He’d pulled back, squeezing Quentin’s hand, and added, “and if you aren’t strong enough, I’ll be there. Always. To pull you back.” 

He wasn’t there to pull him back. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the lump in his throat away. The tendons in his throat have gone tight, almost painfully so, and he just wishes he could get it together. Wishes he were more like Quentin. Brave. Brave enough to close the distance between himself and the front door and knock. Brave enough to tell this woman he’s never met but has heard a lifetime of stories about that her darkest fears become a reality.

He wishes he could wait. Until they finish the quest. Find out in no uncertain terms whether or not they can get Quentin back. But it’s been four months already, and his phone rings and rings and rings on the kitchen counter. Eliots not sure why he keeps it charged, or why he stands there and watches it buzz around on the countertop. Why he stares down at the  1 new missed call; Mom every time. Why he clears out the notification with shaking hands. 

He remembers being a parent. The all encompassing fear when Teddy was out just a little longer than they planned. Can only imagine how her breath hitches and heart clenches when her phone rings. The way the hope seeps out of her when she sees it’s not him. The pounding terror when she calls and he doesn’t answer over and over again. He could wait. Get Quentin back and leave her to be none the wiser. But he has a lifetime of knowledge.

Not knowing is worse than knowing.

Spending her days wondering. Hoping. That today’s the day he finally calls. 

Eliot opens his eyes, the skewed curtains flutter and his breath stutters before finally, after standing here for so long his hands have gone numb from the cold, he makes his way up the path. The two steps leading up to the door are uneven — one higher than the other, and he nearly trips, but catches himself on the splintered porch railing.

He pauses when he reaches out, just shy of his knuckles touching the door.  Be brave.  Swallowing down the fear, he pushes onward and knocks three times. Gentle, careful. She already knows he’s here, she’s just waiting for confirmation he’s here to talk.

The door opens before his hand can even drop to his side.

She’s wearing a cardigan, a simple tan that doesn’t really compliment her. Quentin had always described her as put together, not a hair out of place. Impatient—especially when it came to him. Poised. A viper of a human; fearless and willing to strike anyone who poses a threat. But that’s not the woman standing before Eliot now. This woman’s hair is a mess atop her head, clothes wrinkled and clearly a few days past due for a wash. She’s got bags, deep and dark, beneath her eyes. A tired frown etched with wrinkles. This woman is no viper. 

“Hi,” he feels himself say. His lips barely move—like the words been ripped out of him. 

“Who are you?”

He senses the viper beneath the words; a false bravado. He thinks that maybe, in another life, they’d get along. Can almost imagine a life where Quentin pulls him up along this walk away for Christmas or whatever holiday, and introduces them. Where he woos her. Proves to be the perfect future son in law.

If only.

Instead he’s here in this life about to tell this woman he’s never met that her only son killed himself. 

“I’m Eliot,” he says. 

Her gaze rakes over him, taking him in. She sets her shoulders and pulls her cardigan tight around herself, wrapping her arms around her waist. “If you’re here to sell me something, I’m not interested.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not.”

She clenches her jaw, looks out into the street over his shoulder and back. “What do you want?” She asks. Her fingers tap, a wild, anxious rhythm against her forearm. “Why are you here?” 

“Mrs. Coldwater—“

“That hasn’t been my name for years.”

Her voice is thick.

She knows.

Fuck.

She  knows.

“I’m—“  the reason your son is dead, the man who broke your sons heart, the one person who could have helped him but couldn’t, whose selfishness ended up sending him down a path he’d never leave, “—a friend of Quentin’s.” 

Her lips purse. “Oh? And where is he. Can’t answer his phone. Can’t go to his fathers funeral. What’s the selfish brat done now?”

The bravado’s wavering though. Her voice cracks when she says brat, and her knuckles have gone white where they’re clenching they fabric of her cardigan. She’s full of hope. Futile, broken hope. That Eliots not here to tell her that her every fear is a reality. That she’s lost her entire family in less than a year. 

If Eliot weren’t so adept at ruining people’s lives, this would probably be harder. 

How it couldn’t be any harder than looking in her eyes—eyes so similar to Quentin’s as they go glassy with realization—he’s not sure. 

“Died,” he says without really meaning to.

Off with the band aid, then. 

He watches as her throat goes tight and her lips settle in a thin line. Her gaze shoots out to the yard, eyes fluttering as she tries to blink away the dampness forming along her lash line. He wishes he knew her. Wishes he and Quentin were in that imaginary other life — where he could reach out and comfort her. Instead, he’s here, weighed down by guilt and grief, watching a stranger he knows almost everything about fall apart. It’s like the seams holding her together are slowly unraveling before his eyes.

One of her hands drops from the cardigan—it’s rumpled from how tightly she’d been holding it—and reaches out for the doorframe, like she needs to hold herself up. She looks down at the ground. “When?” Fingers clench tight around the frame. “How?”

He hesitates, biting down on his lip and looking away. How does he tell her he killed himself? How does he even try to break that? 

“A few months ago—“ a low whine, crackly and unreal follows the statement and she falls back against the door, barely managing to catch herself. “—he. I’m so sorry,” he looks up at her, “I should have been there. I should—I’m so sorry.”

She stares at him for a long, wordless moment, shaking as tears finally form and too over the edge of her lashes and down her cheeks. “How?” She asks again, through clenched teeth. 

“He killed himself.”

It’s one thing to say it in the quiet of his mind at all hours of the night. To admit it to himself and to hold it in him like a guilty weight he’ll never be strong enough to lift off his shoulders. It’s something else entirely to let the words fall from his lips — to admit it, out loud, and to the only other person who might be crushed beneath the weight of it. 

Her legs give out and he rushes forward to catch her before she collapses. His arms weave around her waist and he carefully helps her to the floor, kneeling in front of her.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats.

She pushes him away — weak, not at all forceful, and then pulls her knees up to her chest, burying her face in them. Her body shakes, full tremors. Earthquake trauma. “Why—“ she breaks off, shaking her head. “I — I always knew. This would happen I just. Hoped.” 

Eliot nods, falling back on his haunches and looking down at the space between them. “Yeah. Me too.”

He feels her watching him. Can practically hear the next question before she even asks it. 

“Who were you to him? Where’s Julia?”

Who was he to Quentin.

“That’s a loaded question,” he admits, looking up at her from beneath the fringe of hair that’s managed to escape its place behind his ear. “I,” he pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “I love him. He didn’t think I did, but I did. I do.”

“And Julia?”

He shakes his head. “She — a lot was happening. She couldn’t. Be the friend he needed.” 

“How—“ her voice breaks. And she looks up towards the ceiling, blinking. “He was. So desperate not to lose to it. I don’t — how could he give in?” 

Quentin had told him, once, that when he was younger he’d dreamed of growing up. Having a family. Of giving that to his mother — showing her that he didn’t just break things but that he could build them. That he could build a life. Be happy. He had fantasies of family dinners, where she was proud of him. He never admitted it outside the confines of their day bed, soft and whispered into Eliots collar bone. But it never stopped echoing in Eliots head — when Quentin met Arielle. When they got married. When Teddy was born.

An entire lifetime. He did it, and yet Eliots still sitting across from Quentin’s mother to tell her that her worst nightmares a reality. That Quentin will never grow old and love someone who deserves him. Will never have a family. Children. She’ll never be a grand parent. 

“It wasn’t his fault.” 

He was alone. Adrift in his depression. 

She laughs; a broken, hollow sound devoid of any humor. “Ted used to say that a lot,” she mutters. “Don’t be mad, it’s not his fault. He’s sick. You don’t think I know that?” She shakes her head and turns her gaze back on him. “I never knew how to help him. You can’t imagine what it’s like.” 

He blinks. “Can’t I?” 

“Loving someone and raising them are two entirely different things.” 

“Maybe.” He shrugs and picks at a piece of lint on his pant leg. “He and I — we had a lot of history. More than you can even imagine.” 

“More than twenty six years?” She scoffs. “So much history you couldn’t invite me to his funeral?”

Yes. More than twenty six years. More than she can probably even comprehend. He looks up at her. “We didn’t have a funeral,” he says instead. “We couldn’t.” 

“My son killed himself and you couldn’t find it in yourself to give him a funeral?” He’d sense the budding rage even if her words weren’t suddenly clipped. “How can you say you loved him?”

It’s her disgust that breaks him.

Because it’s the same as what’s been curling up inside him all these months. Eating at him. Pecking at what little good he has left. He looks at her. “I do love him,” he says, quiet. “Which, you don’t know me, but it’s kind of — it always felt like an impossibility. Which is why I can’t let it go. Let  him go.” He shakes his head. “We didn’t have a funeral because we’re not letting him go. We’re going to get him back.” 

She freezes. “What?” 

“Our story doesn’t end this way,” he says. “I won’t let it.” 

“You’re actually crazy.” She shakes her head, reaching up to wipe at her tears. “He’s dead. You can’t. Dead is dead.” 

“We’ve petitioned three gods. They’ve sent us on a wild goose chase but.” She shuffles to her knees and pushes herself up. He watches her go, frowning. “We think if we find the right one—“

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

“You don’t understand. I know how it sounds—“

“Leave!” 

“I’m going to fix this.”

“You can’t fucking fix a suicide. He’s dead. Now we mourn and pretend we didn’t see this coming and we move on because this is the new normal.” She shakes her head again, running a hand through her hair. “You need to leave.” 

He forces himself up, grabbing onto the porch for leverage. “It sounds crazy,” he agrees, nodding down at her when he’s up. “But you’ll see—“

She turns around and slams the door in his face. 

He stares at it for a few long moments. At the smudges in between the panels; the dent just above the door knob. Something on the other side shatters, and he stumbles back a step, clutching the railing. 

A hand settles on his shoulder. “I think we should go.”

Eliot nods, twisting around to look up at twenty three. “How’d you find me?”

“Your girl cast a locator spell.”

He nods again. Of course she did. He disappears for more than five minutes without notice these days and she panics. Which makes sense in some world where he doesn’t feel stifled by all his friends. So willing to be there for him, but they’d left Quentin to fend for himself while a monster made his life a living hell. “She’ll kill you if she hears you call her that. Female independence and all that.” 

Twenty three shrugs, stepping backwards off the steps. “I can take care of myself. You good?”

“Depends.” He follows after him, numb but for the sticky, tacky feeling of tears drying on his cheeks. “What’d Erinyes say?” 

“Other than she was expecting us because her brother texted her the second we left his sea cave?” He holds his hand out for Eliot, sympathy rolling off him in waves as Eliot reaches out and takes it. They’re back in the penthouse before he continues, plopping down on the couch and dropping his head over the back of the couching. “That’s we’re going about this all wrong but that she would take pity on us.” 

Eliot sits on the edge of the coffee table and looks at him expectantly. “How? Did she tell you all how—“

“She gave us a pointer.” 

He deflates, slumping forward. “Of course she did. Because the gods are incapable of anything other than destroying things and laughing while it fucking falls apart.”

Penny lifts his head up to look at him. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says. “She told us who was most likely to answer our petition. And that we’d need to offer something in return.” 

Because nothing can ever just a favor with gods. It’s always a fucking transaction. He drops his elbows to his knees and leans forward, tangling a hand through his hair and scratching as his scalp when they get stuck close to the edge of his hair line. “Who and what?” He asks on a long exhale. 

God, he’s getting tired of the what next what next what next of it all. 

“She was all cryptic about it —“

“Of course she was.” 

“— was all, ‘leave it to the fates’ and all that.” Twenty three pauses, and Eliot sighs, flicking his gaze up to look at him. “Then Margo punched her. Square in the nose. Didn’t do a lot. She started laughing, then said, ‘oh i like you’. Told us to go to the actual, literal fates. A trio of goddesses, that literally weave the threads of life.” 

Eliot sits up, slipping his hands out of his hair because that — that actually sounds promising. “Where do we find them?” 

Twenty three raises an eyebrow. “The others are already on their way.” 

“Then why are we here?” 

“Well,” He makes a face and sits up, running his hands down the front of his pants, and it doesn’t take a genius to realize where he’s going with this. “They asked me to make sure you weren’t off getting yourself killed, or worse. And now I go back.”

“And I stay behind.” 

“That’s the gist, yeah.”

He’s tempted to argue, but as he flexes his abdomen to prepare for it, the mostly healed wound in his abdomen twinges, and he imagines Margo standing over his body — again. He relaxes and moves to sit back. “All right.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Sighing, he looks down at his hands in his lap. There are new scars here, too. Right along the crevice on his thumb and forefinger, a few speckles of paler skin along the crease of his wrist. Sometimes it feels like he finds a new scar somewhere on his body every day. “As much as I am loathe to admit,” he glances up from beneath his eyelashes, “I’m a liability right now.” 

Penny stares at him for a beat, then nods. “Okay,” he says. “Then I’m — just. Gonna go.”

“Don’t get Bambi killed.” He’s not surprised when Penny disappears without a response, but he does sigh. “I can’t lose her too,” he adds to the empty room.


End file.
